


Throw cares away

by Anonymous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Victor and Yuuri celebrate their first December 25th in freedom.





	Throw cares away

**Author's Note:**

> For secret santa, I hope this does! Season's greetings to you, anon <3

The dawn was just beginning to break when Yuuri cracked an eye in the dark of a room still deep in hibernation, thick drapes a wall against the snow he could see swirling in the narrow glimpses of the streetlight outside. The chill had infiltrated and was inside the sanctum of their expensive apartment, waiting for him beyond the blessed warmth of his duvet and sat licking his exposed face and arm as it strayed.

He swiftly recollected his limb into the swathes of fabric that layered the bed and curled closer into the body lying next to him. He had miraculously survived the night without the trapped and dead hand he so often woke up to, but it didn’t stop him being uncharitable by slipping his cooled fingers against the hard lines of Victor's abdomen to feel them ripple against the unwelcome shift in temperature, and he stilled with a flat hand against the smooth plane of his lower stomach, thumb in the divot of his navel while he crowded in close to catch to every sleepy little grumble and huff of distaste that was mumbled out into their pillows. He breathed out softly against the silky hair at the back of Victor's neck and tucked his knees closer savouring the mellow of morning with a sleepy smile slipping across his face and a warm heart.

The idyllic minutes of half-consciousness seeped into each other until he was warmed through again and the sun was higher in the sky, blaring insistently in a lapse of the snowfall and bursting through the gaps in their wards in a beautiful, bright winter morning. He woke slower this time, cocooned against the morning and cradling Victor’s reassuring weight. He swept his fingertips up the smooth skin to land in the middle of Victor’s sternum, his index fingertip hooked into a sculpted collarbone, a felt the strong thump of a heartbeat against his palm. He relaxed into the rhythm as he waited for the fog in his mind to clear. It was rare that he was up before the consummate early bird he shared a bed with, too addicted to late nights (as much as he could get away with a live-in coach), and he always savoured the opportunity to simply exist with Victor beside him and convince himself that this was his reality. It had been years now, but the extra validation was always welcome. Victor was so singular, and Yuuri had been so indelicate before, that occasionally it felt as though he would float away if they were not continuously in contact. And Victor was always so warm; heating the bed in minutes, sleeping in as little as possible or nothing at all, poking limbs out from the covers to try and stall his overheating. Yuuri was never warm enough, and since Victor would normally end up smothering Yuuri by nature of being himself the Russian winters had been far more manageable than he had expected.

It was an unfamiliar feeling to have the season free to enjoy, to be relaxing into the cadence of tinny Christmas songs as they are piped through the sound system of their local supermarket without a brain full of programs or dietary condition, or simply having the time for a slow walk through the wide streets of St Petersburg, hand in hand bracing against the cold. 

For as long as Yuuri had been stepping out into the world of professional figure skating this time of the year had been when he his stress always reached a fever pitch: between exams, competitions and negotiating sponsorship deals it felt as if there had never been a time to simply enjoy it. Viktor's time had been twice as bad, stuck in the meat grinder of athletics for almost his entire life, with no real diversions from the pressures or alternative pressures to shake it up. Yuuri could see it occasionally, the little looks of wonder when they woke up slowly to a wintery morning, the happiness at seeing a nativity scene or a tackily decorated house; like he was experiencing it all for the first time. Maybe he really was; maybe he had been stuck for so long he had never paid attention to the season’s jollity before. They had spent the season together before, in snippets around their respective Nationals or in a furious last-minute training crunch, never lived it like this. It was exhilarating. Now, with Yuuri’s last season behind him and a long off-year of organising book deals and leisurely trips across the planet they had nothing but time to dedicate to each other, in a purely personal manner.

He had finally stretched this awakening as far as was sensible, and pressed a kiss to Victor’s nape in parting, the stubbly hair tickling his nose and the smell of his skin gentle and familiar. Extricating himself from where his leg looped between Victor’s proved a trial of dexterity but he eventually managed, shuffling slowly from between the covers and shivering at the sudden emergence into the air of the room. He snuck into the en-suite and showered, threw on his best ‘slumming it’ t-shirt and jogging pants then headed out to the kitchen, Makkachin blinking sleepily at him from her basket. Their apartment had been fully decked out in the spirit of the season with a tree whose star brushed the ceiling, tinsel covering every conceivable edge, and a huddle of the long-lost brothers Father Christmas and Ded Moroz on either side of a Snegurochka that Yuuri couldn’t help but feel had been modelled on Victor in his younger, long-haired days and which Victor refused to either confirm or deny.

He probably still had some time before Victor woke up for once: he had done his level best to exhaust him the night before, after their “romantic Christmas Eve, like you said happens in Japan!” If even his own stamina had been exhausted he could bank on the other half having a slow morning.

Cupboards were opened in near-silence and pans arranged as though made from the finest bone china as he worked to prepare breakfast. He set the blini batter aside for resting to start on the syrniki dough, and was in the process of folding in the quark when a pair of warm, strong hands circled his waist to gently tug him back into an enveloping hug, the shock making him clack the bowl flat on the stone worktop with a smack that echoed in the silence of the apartment.

“Shit!” he cursed, startling again at both the volume of his own voice and his crudity, and turned his head into a charmingly mussed fringe that obscured all expression, Victor leaning his chin heavily on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Sorry, Vitya, did I wake you up? I was trying to be quiet but-”

A chaste but firm kiss quieted his protests sure enough, and he relaxed into a giggle as hair caught in his lips and connected them even after they broke apart.

“Happy birthday, Vitya,” he said, trying to pour as much love into the words as he could manage without facing each other, still caught in the embrace.

“Merry Christmas, Yuuri,” came back to him, murmured straight into his ear in a low rumble that sent a freezing shiver down his vertebrae. No, no time for distractions when he was still in the middle of his current task.

Picking his bowl and wooden spoon back up he resumed the recipe, the body at his back melting further into him to form the maximum hindrance.

“I wasn’t sure that I would be good enough at making either syrniki or blini, so I went for both. I hope you’re hungry!” He could feel the blush from the admission crawling along his shoulders and curled himself into the bowl a fraction.

“Famished,” came the purr over his shoulder, the smirk audible. The ‘thank you’ was softer, mumbled into the cloth of his t-shirt and earned him the best awkward nuzzle to the scalp that Yuuri could coax his neck into from that position.

“It’s the very least I could do for you, I just hope I don’t burn everything,” he replied, rewarded by a vibrating chuckle. He had tried this once before, in the off-season last year for Valentine’s day but destroyed everything by getting waylaid, and had been forced to watch them crisp and burn in front of his eyes; helpless as he was doubled over and rocking up against the counter to Victor’s teasing remarks about it being hot enough in here to set off the alarm. Dick. The thought of triggering a repeat occurrence by reminding him flashed through his mind too late, but all he got was a squeeze to his middle and a smile pressed against his cheek but was left otherwise unmolested.

The rest of the procedure goes relatively well save for one pancake that missed the pan thanks to a goosing mid-flip and a minor argument over the best topping (it’s always chocolate syrup), and Victor plated up while Yuuri fiddled with the radio to find something suitably festive and tugged the bags of presents from their storage at the back of their walk-in closet.

Breakfast passed in quiet laughter, with broken blini shooting jam all over the table and too-thick syrniki sitting untouched, as intimidating as house bricks, licking sour cream from the corner of smiling mouths.

“Time for presents?” Victor piped up as they piled the dishes into the corner of the table, too lazy to move them any further. He had caught onto the bags piled into the corner of the room and covertly lit up like a child trying to contain themselves.

“You’re just excited because you know you’ll have more than me,” Yuuri said, doing his best to appear put out but doing a poor job of it.

“Ha!” Victor crowed, “you’d be surprised how many people see having a birthday now as an excuse to only get one present!” It was the same complaint as every year, even though the Russians at the rink normally exchanged gifts in January and their international friends were consistently very good for at least attempting to separate the two occasions, Victor’s pile consistently dwarfed his own. (Yuuri’s birthday the month before netted usually netted him a larger total, mainly due to a staggering number of contributions from a singular source.)

They had been having an ongoing discussion about what to do with all their clashing customs now that they had every opportunity, and finally settled for a mash-up of Japanese and American Christmas traditions, since it had been a larger part of Yuuri’s life since Detroit and Victor had never paid much attention to his Orthodox upbringing, so keeping the date in December made more sense than leaving it until January. Then, of course, it was whether to focus on the lovers’ holiday of the Eve in Japan or do both, but Victor couldn’t celebrate his birthday early to avoid the bad luck (athletes are a superstitious set) but still desperately wanted another excuse for a romantic day together. They had settled on an Eve of dinner and a show - which obviously had to be the Nutcracker for the maximum possible festive cheer – followed by shutting themselves into their bedroom for hours while Makkachin paced on the other side of the door trying to investigate the ruckus.

The plan for Christmas day was more sedate, inspired by Victor’s fascination with homely family Christmases in a vein that seemed to have been absorbed through kids and made-for-tv movies. They sat together at the table, ooh-ing and aah-ing as they picked through their gifts, and exchanging heated glances when they came across something from Chris. As usual, Victor had got him too many things, including plane tickets to Fukuoka in February that started him crying so hard that Victor had been sure that he’d made a fatal error and was about to get kicked out into the street. Victor had responded in kind when he had unwrapped the photo album that Yuuri had filled up with their podium photos, training selfies and Instagram posts, crying hard enough to hiccup when Yuuri joked that it was to help with his terrible memory. He was still beautiful.

Between the two of them making an emotional mess of themselves it was time to start dinner preparations by the time they had pulled themselves together they were already overdue for beginning the food preparation for their big lunch, especially given their lengthy detour working their way through the overstuffed stocking full of dog presents and the fawning and demonstrative play that each one necessitated. Victor had always been a little, or a lot, over-generous as a dogfather and Yuuri fared no better when faced with such a picture of adoring sweetness; puppy eyes bright against a muzzle threaded with dignified grey. The stocking in question was larger than any human foot that Yuuri had ever seen, yet still overflowed onto the floor.

The meal is a bit of a disaster, all things considered. All the recipes are either new or long-forgotten, having been banished to obscurity in the pursuit of athleticism with no time for overly fattening winter foods, and they made a variety of bits and pieces from both Russian and American traditions (the turkey survived a lot better than Yuuri’s first attempt at a naturalised dinner with Phichit, may the poor tortured bird rest in peace), and they didn’t meld particularly well. Victor had laughed until he had given himself a stitch when Yuuri tried to explain that, yes, Kentucky Fried Chicken was the food of his people and could he please respect his culture and keep breading the thighs, it’s not his fault that Japan had adopted fast food as their defining Christmas meal and how did someone in such good shape even get a stitch?

They heave themselves off the dining chairs after their feast, fat and sated, and ooze onto the sofa to the melodious sound of Makkachin destroying her bowl of turkey breast in record time, the smacks and growls loud even on the other side of the flat. 

There was a moment of friction when Yuuri vetoed watching Love Actually, earning him a pout that it takes several long minutes of kissing to properly get rid of. They eventually settled on Elf, and melt into each other's arms while they slide into post-gorging lethargy, rousing only just enough to sing along with _Santa Claus Is Coming To Town_. 

“It’s like us, isn’t it?” Victor asked, his eyes looking far into the middle distance. “Leaving the only thing we’ve ever known to be dumped in the real world to try and figure out how it works. Although at least you’ve had your time at university, I’ve had nothing else.”

“I think you’re really stretching that interpretation, Vitya, besides you have me to help you pass as a regular member of society. I’m sure that we can manage somehow.” Yuuri was comfortably loose and sleepy in the comfort of the afternoon, and when he turned to plant a kiss on Victor’s cheek he was almost dazed enough not to notice the silence that greeted that reply or the heat radiating off a rosy red face. As it was he smiled smugly to himself before re-adjusting himself against the cushions and tugging Victor’s elbow into a better position.

In the end, all his fine-tuning was for nothing when Makkachin jumped square onto his stomach, tired of entertaining herself with the bounty of gifts she had received and Santa hat sitting crooked across her ears. The bark her impact punched from Yuuri’s lungs almost matched her own joyful greeting, and it took every ounce of his performance skill to stretch a grimace across his face to cover his distress at the sudden pressure on his already full belly. 

“Makka! Were you lonely, little one?” Victor cooed from over his shoulder before descending into obsequious baby-talk, Yuuri finally relaxing enough to ruffle her ears until her mouth hung open in a grin. 

“How’s your Christmas going, Makka?” he joined in, “are you being a good Santa?” Her tongue lolled at him and she got an extra forceful rub at her neck in return. He tipped his head back against the shoulder behind him, “Could you put on the next one for us? I’ve been commandeered.” 

What came next was some artful shuffling trying to remove the foundation of their arrangement without displacing the lump of dog perched on top, then trying to reinsert said foundation when all the preparations were over with. It was tricky but they managed it somehow, and Yuuri ended up half-lying on Victor while Makkachin lapped at his face.

Victor turned out to be a huge fan of the Muppets Christmas Carol, one of Phichit’s favourites from their college days, and every time he started trying to draw up plans for their trip to Hasetsu there were a couple of sentences to pass between them and then he would get distracted by whatever was happening on the screen and his words would fade away. 

“This is your first time seeing this, Vitya?” Yuuri finally asked, incredulous. It had been such a staple to him that it seemed ridiculous that in their years together they had never got around to watching it.

“I read the book years ago, and I’ve seen the odd adaptation here and there. I really relate to Kermit though, I hope everyone can find and marry the piggy for them.”

Yuuri tensed, blanching then flushing at the return of his nickname from years ago then reached up to his shoulder where Victor’s hand rested, then slowly traced a finger over the familiar twin bands. His heart felt too large for his chest all of a sudden, and he held his inhale before he opened his mouth again.

“And have a host of froglets and piglets?”

There was a sharp gasp behind him, and they both froze for a long moment, Makkachin blearily rousing to inspect the change in the air. Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to look Victor in the eye and so held a stare with Makkachin as they waited, intent, the film playing out to nobody in the background.

“Yes,” came the answer against his neck at long last, earnest and tender. Fingers caught his jaw and gently pulled him around to stare into wide blue eyes that looked ready to spill tears again. “Yes, Yuuri, a whole litter of piglets.” Yuuri’s heart burst and he turned around further and braced a hand to the armrest for the leverage he needed to push himself up and take Victor’s lips, pressing insistently before they opened together and he had to shuffle further up to get closer, distantly aware of a grumbled huff from the direction of his knees and a clatter of nails against the polished floor. 

Their kiss was languid, passionate, perfect, the love between them a tangible presence. Yuuri felt all the tension leave him, worry that he had been holding in since the germ of an idea took hold of him when he first suggested retiring. 

“Thank you, Vitya. You make me so happy.” The words felt like too little for the weight of the emotion threatening to overwhelm him, but they needed to be said.

“You make me happy too, Yuuri, but let’s talk about this more later. I don’t think today is the day for it, yes?”

Yuuri ducked his head and nodded into Victor’s shoulder, throat tight at the emotion in Victor’s face. 

“Oh, that reminds me!” Yuuri exclaimed, shooting up straight from his slump against Victor and scrambling off the couch to hurry back into the kitchen area.  
He retrieved the birthday cake from where it had been secreted away and looked back to the living room to see Victor peeking over the back of the couch, curious. He shielded his activity from sight as well as he could with his body as he pulled out a little bag of golden candles to match the decorations on the top and ribbon pulled into a bow tie around the circumference. He hoped Victor would like it – he was always a sucker for roll-on icing so it was probably a safe bet, even if it a looked a little gaudy.

“What are you doing over there, my love?” came the sickly-sweet trill, a tone only ever used when he was wheedling; something that was more common than Yuuri would ever have guessed when he only knew the champion from competitions and magazine interviews. 

“Some patience, please!” he called back, feeling the time run out while he tried to find wherever they put the firelighter. Victor was not at all a patient man, and there was a very good chance he would soon get bored and come over to investigate before Yuuri was ready. 

Drawers were pulled out, useless tools that had caught Victor’s whim and been bought for one use cluttering up all the available space and then got caught trying to replace them, until finally his fingers caught against the familiar handle and he drew it out from between their pizza scissors, and the many tendrils of an egg slicer. He lit the dozen candles with shaking hands, the sound of movement behind him like the tick of a countdown, and then turned around to finally reveal himself to Victor, who was sitting up against the back with both hands on the back of the seat and was pulling himself up for a better vantage point, Makkachin a mimic beside him.

Victor’s face brightened when he caught sight of the flames, and there was a moment when Yuuri was sure that he would vault right over the seat and tackle him and the lit flames down, but instead, he sat back and watched them process around to face him.

Now was the moment Yuuri had been preparing for. 

He psyched himself up as he set the cake down on their coffee table, then took a deep breath and began to sing, in his best heavily-accented Russian:

_Never mind the clumsy pedestrians_  
_jumping over rain puddles._  
_And the water streaming down the street._  
_And never mind that the passers-by can't understand_  
_Why I'm so happy on such a thundery day._

_Yet I'm playing my accordion_  
_In front of everyone on the street._  
_It's so sad that a birthday_  
_Can only happen once a year._

_A wizard will suddenly appear_  
_In a blue helicopter,_  
_And will show me movies for free._  
_He'll say “Happy Birthday”_  
_And just before he flies away_  
_He'll probably leave 500 ice creams for me_

_____ _

_____ _

He was about to launch himself into the final chorus when Victor, who had been steadily grinning wider and wider as the song continued, finally burst out laughing – a loud, rolling laugh that sucked the air right out of Yuuri’s lungs to fuel itself. His cheeks burned as he shuffled in place, too embarrassed to look Victor in the eye.

“I knew something was wrong; this is why I just stuck to ‘Happy Birthday’ before,” he pouted, finally getting the fortitude to look back in time to see Victor fail repeatedly to get the breath to blow out the candles through the force of his giggles. 

“No, Yuuri, I swear that was perfect!” Victor responded, trying and failing to be subtle as he delicately wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “It’s very sweet of you, just very unexpected? It’s an old song my family used to sing at birthdays, I wasn’t expecting it, is all.” Yuuri’s face burned brighter. He shifted onto one leg and rubbed at his elbow, but his wallowing was interrupted when he was engulfed in a smothering hug.

“Thank you, Yuuri,” Victor said, his voice quiet, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you but I hope I keep doing it.”

It was all Yuuri could do to hold them as close as he could, fingers grasping desperately at the back of Victor’s shirt. They stayed together like that until they calmed, the film behind them building through the finale as Victor pressed a kiss to his hairline. 

There was a rustle and a thump behind them as Makkachin tumbled off the sofa in her investigation of the coffee table and they broke apart in a sudden panic.

“No, Makka, back off!” Victor chided, angling her away while Yuuri carried the cake board back to the island, and by the time they had everything sorted out the credits were rolling and they had cuddled back up together again, Makkachin safe and sleepy in her basket. 

“You’ve got a bit…” Victor murmured, brushing a crumb from Yuuri’s cheek and bringing it to his own mouth. They shared a smile and Yuuri reached out and grabbed the lobe of Victor’s ear and tugged, counting along _one, two, three_ until he caught Victor’s eye and lost count, stalling and going quiet as he continued in the hopes that he would luck out and hit on the right age.

Victor’s face sank into a sulk and Yuuri’s heart sank with it.

“Am I really that old? I know I have a couple of grey hairs coming in, but I didn’t think it was that noticeable…” Yuuri reeled from the impact of the wink that followed, responding with a light punch to his shoulder.

“You’re an old and busted man, Victor Nikiforov, fit only to sit around and eat cake. And so am I. And now, there are dishes to do.” Victor laughed, shaking his head, then stood and followed Yuuri into the kitchen.

The afternoon flowed smoothly into an evening of games, wine, quiet laughter and lazy affection. Late into the night, Victor swept him up in a slow waltz to fill his ears and mind with words of love, then taking his time licking the vestiges of wine from Yuuri's mouth. With a hand on the small of his back and a head leaning heavy on his shoulder Yuuri’s world narrowed, the raging blizzard outside forgotten, the soft music ignored, intent only on the rhythm of him and Victor as they circled the room.

“Happy birthday, Victor.” The words weren’t enough. They shifted, looking fully into each other’s eyes as they came to a halt, arms dropping to circle each other. 

“Merry Christmas Yuuri.”

“And many happy returns of the day.”

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-0xugvRnUg 
> 
> <3


End file.
